


Best Kept Secrets

by Borath



Category: Babylon 5, Babylon 5 & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Light-Hearted, crackish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 06:22:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2955512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Borath/pseuds/Borath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Londo wants to know what's inside Kosh's encounter suit.  Sheridan wants to know how Kosh eats.  Ivanova just wants to go to bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best Kept Secrets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SixWeekOldHedgehog (harinezumiko)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/harinezumiko/gifts).



 

Londo had a habit of leaving Vir in places, and like the obedient hound he was treated as, Vir stayed where he was put. Prior to the Babylon 5 Advisory Council meeting that had begun two hours ago, the Centauri Ambassador had left Vir supervising two prime bar stools at the Rising Star on the central concourse. Vir had had to slip away to use the facilities, pay the Drazi who’d taken Londo’s seat to vacate it again, exchanged a rather long empathetic look with Lennier in passing, and was nursing his third Shirley Temple when Londo reappeared. His principal seemed deeply disturbed, and was circling his hand for a drink before he was halfway across the crowd.

“Is everything alright, Londo?” he asked, already sliding down from the barstool with some urgency. “Did something happen with the Council?”

“I should say. Brica Brandy, immediately!” The ambassador threw himself back against the bar whilst he waited, staring out across the steady tide of people passing by. 

“Londo, is-”

“Be quiet, Vir,” Londo snapped, shooting the younger man a sharp look beneath the heavy curl of his eyebrows. “I need to think.”

Vir watched for a moment, his fingers lacing and shifting in an uncertain weaving motion. Londo’s temper could be highly unpredictable when he was in this sort of mood, especially after a council meeting. It was unusual for the ambassador to be so quiet about it, and Vir wasn’t sure what to say. 

Just as Vir had decided to gently inquire if there was anything he could do, Londo suddenly burst into movement again. He was off the barstool and in the thick of the milling public before Vir could register the Ambassador’s target: a tall, thickly-set Naarn.

“Did you see it, G’Kar?” Londo said, his voice an urgent rasp. 

G’Kar kept walking as if he had no intention of stopping, and he barely looked at the shorter man. His expression was pensive, his thoughts preoccupied. “See what?” 

Londo growled and hooked a hand about G’Kar’s elbow, steering him towards the bar where his brandy had finally arrived. “At the end of the session when everyone was leaving. When Lethke’s foot caught something under that damned encounter suit.”

Said foot had passed beneath the outermost edge of the Vorlon’s drapery. At encountering solidity, and realising who had almost tripped, the Brakiri ambassador had looked as though he’d swallowed a brick. Even Sheridan had frozen and stared. Kosh’s passage had paused for a tense moment, the suit’s lens narrowed tightly, before he’d continued on soundlessly. 

An absolute non-event, but it had raised a murmur and a few heart rates. 

Though not G’Kar’s, who let himself be steered if only because Londo seemed on a mission to make an excitable fool of himself. Sitting up on the barstool, he waved off the server as soon as she approached. “So? What does it matter if Kosh stubbed his toe? It’s hardly newsworthy.”

“Hardly!” Londo sputtered so violently that his drink spilled up his wrist. “How can you presume that he has toes? Or even feet? Are you not curious about what he keeps under there?”

“His body, one would presume.”

“Pah, typical Naarn. No imagination. No _curiosity._ ”

“I must say, it is a curious thing,” Vir said from behind Londo’s shoulder, more to himself than the ambassadors. “Kosh, and presumably all Vorlons in their suits, move with an uncanny smoothness that bipeds couldn’t hope to accomplish.”

Londo turned on the barstool to face him, incredulous. “Are you saying he’s hovering, or on wheels?”

Vir shrugged. “Why not? Triggalors have single feet, and use muscle contractions to glide-“

“Stop, don’t,” Londo spat. “Disgusting creatures. Slime everywhere. And complete sobriety on their homeworld! No wonder they’ve barely made it out of their solar system.” He set down his empty glass and beckoned to the server, “Another!”

G’Kar shook his head, still frowning from Londo’s earlier remark. When the Centauri had his drink, he leaned forward along the bar. “No imagination?” he asked, more a baffled statement than a challenge of the assertion.

“None,” Londo agreed. 

G’Kar rolled his eyes and sat back. Admittedly he was as curious as most about the Vorlons, whom despite having been around in the universe for so long were virtually unknown. He had long made peace with the fact that some mysteries were meant to remain so, however, lest the balance of the universe be in some way troubled. 

Londo had no such compunctions. The ambassador drained his glass in one dramatic swallow, then raised the vessel and set it down as if laying a gauntlet upon the bar. “I’m going to do it. I’m going to find out what’s under that suit.”

Vir startled off of the stool, coming to stand in front of the ambassador. He could feel himself growing clammier in response to Londo’s mounting enthusiasm. To the impending lawsuits. His face was imploring. “Please, Londo. We can’t risk starting an international incident just because you wanted to see up Kosh’s skirt.”

“Nonsense, Vir. I have done this before.”

“Of course you have,” G’Kar remarked, deadpan.

Vir covered his eyes with his fingers, then threw up his hands in wearied despair. 

*

Another morning, another session. His seat in the council chambers was beginning to mould to his body – or his body to it- and Sheridan was planning on putting some flight time into his upcoming schedule sooner rather than later. If he didn’t get outside, alone, and hurl himself around in a starfury soon, he was going to start carving limericks into the table.

The meeting was due to begin shortly, and it seemed as though it would be a quiet one. Only four ambassadors had taken their seats across the floor. Few, it seemed, had much interest in arguing the issues of legalizing an alcoholic liquid once considered sacred to the Iksha. 

Not every meeting could bear widespread ripples of change and controversy. Sometimes it was the preferential sanitation treatment of one race over the others; or authorising the local sale of _Jezuz Juze._

“Curious,” Delenn murmured, drawing the human from his thoughts. “Ambassador Mollari does not usually arrive late to meetings, and I had suspected that today’s agenda would be of interest to him.”

Sheridan shifted forward to lean on his elbows, thumbing up the agenda’s single point on his screen. “He’s got three minutes left. And the Vorlon ambassador isn’t here yet, either.”

On the other side to Delenn, G’Kar arched a thick, reptilian brow. “‘Yet’? That’s very optimistic of you, Captain.”

Sheridan frowned. “What do you mean? Kosh hasn’t missed a single session since I’ve been here.”

Delenn’s frown was less pronounced across her delicate features, but still undeniably present. “That is true. His attendance has been constant, even though he has had nothing to say.”

“That’s unusual, then?”

“Yes.” Delenn smiled. “Kosh’s presence on the Council is an honorary one as a representative of one of the First races. As the Vorlon Empire neither trades with anyone else, nor involve itself politically with any other species, Kosh has no need to be here, and came periodically during Captain Sinclair’s tenure. It is only since you arrived that he has come to every assembly.”

Sheridan was quiet for a moment, turning the statement over in his mind. Discounting the non-explanation that Vorlons were wilfully mysterious, and their actions and motivations particularly so, there were few remaining reasons for Kosh’s increased attendance. One: the Vorlorn’s interest in the affairs of other races had grown. Two: Kosh suspected Sheridan was incompetent and was watching for him to prove so. Three: Kosh believed Sheridan was making a difference and was watching him doing so. As the Captain couldn’t speculate about the Vorlons, and felt that his achievements on Babylon 5 since arriving were too well and clearly reflected to indicate that he wasn’t up to the task, that left the third option.

“Well,” Sheridan announced with a smile, “I’m going to take it as a compliment.”

“Good,” Delenn replied, and sounded genuine in the assertion. “Ah, if you will excuse me, I’d like to query the Drazi ambassador on a point before we begin.”

Deleen left the table to approach the first bench row, shoulders back and robes sweeping. Sheridan checked the time and looked at the door. 

G’Kar set down his stylus and folded his arms. “I suspect we shan’t be seeing Mollari here if Kosh isn’t coming.”

Sheridan squinted a moment, trying to connect the two, and ultimately had to ask, “Why?”

“He’s developed a foolish, potentially dangerous fixation with Kosh’s body. Or, at least, what’s underneath the fabric of the encounter suit.” The Narn waved a hand. “Something about feet and wheels.”

Sheridan _huh_ ed and sat back in the chair. When Kosh’s appeared in the doorway seconds later, Sheridan’s speculative gaze was drawn to the Vorlon’s hem. When he looked up again, the encounter suit’s lens was, typically, staring at him staring. Sheridan cleared his throat with a feeble little sound and he forced a smile, straightening his stylus in front of him. Kosh was motionless a second longer, then drifted to take his customary position where his seat would be. 

Londo followed, having apparently been lurking behind the ambassador in the doorway rather than blustering past as he would have with anyone else posing an obstruction. He took his own seat and smiled pointedly at G’Kar, who rolled his eyes. 

To Sheridan, it was confirmation of G’Kar’s news; though it certainly didn’t shed any light on what Londo hoped to gain by it, or how he planned to go about achieving his goal. Utterly lost, and with time ticking on, Sheridan sat back and watched Delenn. As soon as she began to make her way back across the floor, he called the meeting to order.

*

“What a complete waste of time,” Londo muttered as soon as Sheridan had thanked the paltry assembly for attending. “‘Was it sacred?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Is there anyone left alive who still thinks so?’ ‘No.’ ‘So, for the sake of a trade embargo to four planets, does it matter?’ ‘Not a bit.’ _Pah._ ”

G’Kar got to his feet and tugged his leathery robes straight. “You didn’t have to attend. Hardly anyone else did.”

Londo murmured something under his breath, which may not have been anything as articulate as words, and tucked his right hand into his pocket. Beside him, Sheridan bid Delenn a good day and made to leave, only to find his path blocked by a wall of Vorlon.

“My apologies, Kosh. Excuse me.” 

No reaction. Sheridan found himself staring up at the lens aperture with a cheerily dumbfounded expression, which was rapidly becoming his default when confronted by the Vorlon ambassador. 

“Did you… want to speak with me?”

The proxy head of the suit bobbed once, and there was a lyrical warble of frequencies from the lower panel. It went on for far longer than the single word that was ultimately translated: Yes. Sheridan wondered again at the nuances and technicalities of the Vorlon language that were irretrievably lost when forced into twenty-six letters.

The suit turned, and Sheridan gestured towards the doorway. “Of course, please.” 

G’Kar edged past them with a short nod. In the periphery of his vision, Sheridan noted that Londo was hovering. He turned his attention back to Kosh, however, trusting that the older man would come to him another time if it was anything important.

Despite volunteering that he had something to say to Sheridan, Kosh remained frustratingly silent. Sheridan felt himself being waited for, some cue expected of him that he was soundly failing to deliver. He flexed his hands at his sides, wishing again to be at the controls of a starfury. Navigating hyperspace deaf and blind would be easier than this.

“I must say, I did wonder a little at your being here,” he finally said, figuring that an honest statement was as good an opening gambit as any. “I didn’t think that the implications of legalising a beverage once considered sacred would have been of any interest to you.”

“I am not sustained in your way.”

“Well yes, exactly.” Sheridan mentally paused, shook his head, and smiled a little at his own ignorance. “Or so I’d assumed. I, _no one_ knows what, or how, Vorlons eat.”

“You would not understand.” 

There was something sad in the admission, Sheridan thought. But then, no conversation with Kosh was really about what was said. There were always other layers of meaning in insinuations, implications and maddening obfuscations. Cautiously, and puzzling now at the trajectory of this conversation, he broached: “Is it complex?”

“No. We take the universe into ourselves.”

Sherdan’s eyes narrowed, and he smiled at seeing through that overly lyrical explanation. “So does everything in the universe. We’re all of the same atomic matter. It just, moves around.” 

Kosh nodded, sweeping through the doorway and out into the corridor. 

The Captain acknowledged the guards stationed outside and gamely pushed on. “Eating is often a social activity for people. ‘Breaking bread’ is traditionally part of building rapports and relationships.”

Kosh stopped just short of the junction at the end of the corridor. Typically he would turn left, in the direction of his quarters, and Sheridan would turn right for the command deck. Now he positioned himself to one side, filling half the width, and fixed the human with the full intensity of his focus. “It is dangerous,” he said. “You could not observe.”

Sheridan glanced to Londo, whom had followed and now stood at a respectable distance from them. He was kept from wondering at the Centauri’s motives as his mind caught on to what Kosh was implying. “I wasn’t suggesting-”

“Yes,” Kosh cut in, in near synchronicity with the suit’s warble.

Londo took something from his pocket and began to examine it in both hands. Delenn emerged from the council chamber a little way behind him.

The Captain shook his head. “Wait.”

“That is all we can do.”

Sheridan ignored the typically _Kosh_ remark, watching Londo suddenly make a hurried approach towards them. “No, I mean-”

“Excuse me, Captain. Ambassador,” Londo murmured, the thick padding of his jacket knocking against Sheridan’s uniform. At the moment of impact, he dropped the spherical device onto the floor.

Sheridan didn’t miss the sharp kick Londo delivered the little grey ball when it rolled back from the fabric of Kosh’s suit, obviously aiming for the Vorlon’s hemline. Just before it reached the metallic fabric, the ball came to an unnaturally abrupt halt. It vibrated a moment, and then disintegrated into a puff of white smoke that smelled distinctively of burnt circuitry. 

Londo froze, and there was a flash of genuine fear across his face. It was instantly subsumed by indignation – the expression setting easily into the lines of his brow, and he stared boldly up into Kosh’s loom. “I dropped it. An entirely innocent accident, I assure you. Now if you’ll excuse me.” 

Sheridan was too busy looking up at Kosh in shock to see Londo beating a hasty retreat, the Vorlon’s lens narrowed to a near close as it followed the Centauri’s back. He bent down to inspect the smoking remains of the sphere with more than a strong suspicion that it had been some kind of camera. Huffing at Londo’s daring ingenuity, if nothing else, Sheridan looked up and blinked in surprise to find that Kosh had moved on. In his place, Delenn stood patiently awaiting an explanation.

He sighed and gingerly felt around the melted circuitry, confirming the materials weren’t hot before scooping the broken pieces into his hand. Sheridan pocketed them for Garibaldi’s inspection later, rising back to his feet.

Delenn’s brows pinched inwards, her large eyes thoughtful. “What was that about?”

“I don’t know. Kosh said he wanted to speak to me about something, then we fell into a tangent about eating and I’m really not sure how we got there.”

“No, I mean Londo. And whatever that device was.”

“Oh,” Sheridan replied, dusting off his hands. “I think it was a camera. Londo’s on some kind of mission to see inside Kosh’s encounter suit.”

Delenn tipped her head to one side, eyebrows raising. “To see Kosh? Well now. Many have tried, but no one has succeeded.”

Sheridan hummed, and his boyish features shifted into something cheeky. “You’ve got to wonder though, haven’t you? You must have wondered, Delenn.”

“No. It is not my place to wonder, only to observe. And what I have observed is that Kosh is intensely private, about both the Vorlons and himself, perhaps because both transcend our ability to understand. The Vorlons are old, remember, and have doubtless evolved beyond anything we can comprehend. Or even imagine.”

“I’m not curious about the transcendence of his species.” Sheridan folded his arms, shoulders hunching up in a shrug. “I just want to know what he looks like. And whether or not he can eat bread.”

Delenn smiled, looking rather as if fondly indulging a child. “Kosh does not share himself, in any regard. Londo will find himself facing an impenetrable wall that determination and curiosity are unable to overcome.”

“Maybe. But if he does manage to catch a glimpse, I’ll be buying the ambassador a drink.” At the Minbari’s expression, Sheridan’s hands dropped back to his sides. “To, uh, celebrate advancing our knowledge of another race and perhaps deepening our rapport with the bridge of understanding.”

“You are mixing metaphors, and failing to convince me that this is anything other than a childish endeavour to invade another’s privacy,” Delenn remarked, her tone mildly scolding.

“You have a way of sucking the fun out of everything, sometimes,” Sheridan replied, his grin encouraged by her tone. “And of making fun feel guilty to boot.”

“I am of the religious caste, Captain,” she said, a little tartly as she turned to leave. “What else did you expect?”

Grinning to himself, Sheridan began to make his way to the lift. As soon as he was alone, his Link chirped for his attention.

“Sheridan.”

“We will speak later.”

The Captain paused at Kosh’s voice, having never heard the Vorlon speak over the Link before. It took a second for his words to register, and then Sheridan’s surprise only increased. “Oh?”

“Your quarters. We will break bread.”

The channel was closed before Sheridan could reply. He was left in the corridor, alone and mystified, and wondering if there was a baker on Babylon 5.

*

Ivanova had a date with a heat pad and a bowl of triple chocolate ice cream, and she was looking forward to meeting it. Though god-like in tactical prowess and the awed-terror she was capable of inspiring with naught more than the pitch of her voice and the tension in her body, she was still susceptible to the regular unpleasantries of the human female form.

It had been a forgivingly quiet shift up until now. Presently, two Balosian brothers were jockeying in their personal shuttles to enter the landing bay first, and Ivanova had had scarcely enough patience to go around.

She was counting the minutes down to the end of her shift, and smiled for the first time today when Sheridan arrived on the command deck five minutes early.

“All quiet here, Captain, you’ll be pleased to know,” Ivanova reported as Sheridan came to stand beside her on the bridge. She nodded out towards the viewer, her mouth curling into a thin line. “Aside from these two children outside the landing bay, of course.”

“What’s going on?”

“Typical of the male species across the universe, they have neither an accurate perception of dimensions or the inclination to hear that they’re not the size they think they are.” She saw that Sheridan’s eyes were a little glazed, as if his attention was elsewhere. Shaking her head, she stalked to a console and rested her knuckles against it, scowling at the display. “They won’t fit into the bay at the same time, and I’m this close to knocking out their engines and towing them away from the station for a time out.”

“That’s great, Ivanova. Listen though: Kosh is coming to my quarters.”

Ivanova straightened, her jaw falling slack though she managed to keep her mouth closed. Being second commander of Babylon 5 demanded a good poker face. “Kosh?” she echoed back, as if saying it herself would mean it made sense. “In your quarters.”

“Yeah, in about ten minutes actually.” Sheridan held his hands up, his expression the picture of a guilty Labrador puppy, and began to make his way back to the lift door. “I know, I know, and I tried to reschedule with him, but you know what Kosh is like.”

The Commander turned on the spot, tracking him with her eyes. “You want me to pull a double shift.”

“Or just half of one. And you can have the whole day off tomorrow.”

Ivanova was silent a moment, her teeth meeting and pressing together until the muscles of her jaw hurt. Then, when the earnest look on Sheridan’s face remained in place, she dropped her shoulders with a tight smile. “Fine.”

“Really?” Sheridan looked delighted.

“Mmhmm. It’s fine,” Ivanova replied, the tone of her voice lifting into a high, light pitch that had two of the enlisted officers shrinking in their chairs. “Take the whole shift off. Have fun.”

“Thanks Susan, you’re the best,” Sheridan said, backing into the lift. “I’ll pay you back, I promise.”

Lieutenant Corwin made a face at his console, simultaneously horrified and astonished. Apparently, and despite having been married, Sheridan didn’t understand that ‘It’s fine’ and ‘Have fun’ meant the exact opposite in that tone of voice. And that he was going to pay dearly for the misunderstanding.

Sheridan left the bridge and the doors closed behind him. Ivanova returned to her position by the viewing window and gripped the railing. 

For ten minutes, the silence was so complete that they could hear the quiet, distant rumble before a klaxon on Corwin’s console began sounding. “Impact to the shuttle bay door, Commander. Glancing blow by one of the Balosian ships. Damage is minimal.”

“Perfect.”

“They’re asking to speak to you.”

“No.”

“Commander?”

“No.” Ivanova turned away from the viewer and lent back against the railing, her face deceptively neutral. “Tell them that they will leave until they’ve paid for the repairs via a direct transfer to our accounts, otherwise they will be seen as a hostile force attempting to damage and potentially infiltrate the station.”

“They’re protesting.”

“Arm the main batteries.”

“They’re going.”

“Belay that order.”

She dropped into the command chair, crossing one leg over the other, and spun back and forth off her heel. Her chin rested on her knuckles until she came to a decision, and then she spoke into her Link. 

“Moonlight Plaza, this is C&C.”

“Good evening, Commander. How may we help you?”

“I’d like to place an order. For a full rack of bourbon-barbeque spare ribs. With extra sauce, extra sticky. A side of mashed potatoes and peas. And ice cream. Your best chocolate ice cream.”

“We’re out of chocolate ice cream, I’m afraid.”

“Well I’m sure that on a space station five miles long, generating artificial gravity with a rotational spin and orbiting an inhospitable world at 34,000 miles per second that you can manage to source a tub of chocolate fudge brownie ice cream.”

“I believe that we can. Will there be anything else?”

“No – ah! A Diet Coke. Large, with ice. That will be all. Send the bill to Captain Sheridan’s account.”

“Very good.”

Ivanova closed the channel with a smile. The pain curdling around her gut hadn’t abated, but there was a warm ball of immense satisfaction spreading like a soothing balm across her body.

A warning glance at Corwin stopped him staring at her, his console screen suddenly absolutely riveting. 

*

Sheridan had bought two small, fresh seeded bread rolls in a symbolic gesture of welcome. He’d eaten one; the other had sat growing cold on a side plate on the opposite side of the table, overseen by his Vorlon guest.

Kosh had watched him eat spaghetti. He couldn’t have chosen a worse food to have in front of a witness. The pasta was clumsy and slippery on his lips, the sauce slopped with absolutely no culinary elegance across the place, and it had taken too damn long to eat. The Vorlon had spoken little, and having been raised not to speak with his mouth full, Sheridan had been left to both eat, hold a stilted conversation, and feel incredibly self-conscious whilst doing both.

After an hour of achieving no insight and a dozen paper-cut instances of embarrassment, Sheridan wanted Kosh to leave. This encounter had been uncomfortable, unhelpful, and he was feeling awkward in his own quarters.

He dabbed his mouth with a napkin, set in aside on the table, and rose to his feet. “So, this was fun. Uh, thanks for stopping by.”

Kosh didn’t move. He certainly didn’t leave. 

They were at an impasse for ten seconds.

Sheridan pressed his lips together, and clapped his hands in front of him. He smiled. 

“Thanks again for stopping by.”

Kosh still did not leave.

Hands that had clapped in what Sheridan had hoped was an obvious gesture that their business was concluded now tightened together, thumbs rubbing. Well, that was fine. Kosh could stand there all evening if he pleased. Hoping to irritate the Vorlon out of his quarters, Sheridan picked up the remote and turned on the telescreen. Flicking through the channels, he found a Rebo and Zooty marathon.

Taking a seat on the sofa, Sheridan stretched his arms out over the cushions and crossed his legs atop the coffee table. _That ought to do it._

Zooty was trying to put on gloves, but every pair of gloves was inappropriate for his hands. Some had too many fingers, some too few. Some were models, not fabric. Some were enormous and others were miniscule. Rebo was gathering them in his arms, sputtering apologies for not packing Zooty’s gloves for the trip, and trying not to drop them.

Sheridan laughed loudly, louder than he usually would have because he wanted the Vorlon to leave. Instead, however, Kosh was coming closer.

Silently, moving in that eerie glide that Sheridan was still getting used to, Kosh positioned himself alongside the sofa. The Commander drew his arm back and down into his lap, so if the unimaginable happened and the Vorlon sat next to him, then they wouldn’t be like two kids in a 20th Century cinema.

The suit’s vox gave a whispery sound, like ice freezing on metal. Sheridan tensed at the warning of speech.

“All the hands in the universe,” Kosh said, the monocular head of the suit tipping to one side, “are not enough to contain it.”

Sheridan rolled his eyes. The longest sentence Kosh had ever uttered to him, he thought, and it was still impenetrably cryptic. 

Rebo dropped the gloves and lifted his hat, revealing Zooty’s correctly sized and formed garments standing erect atop his head.

The encounter suit made a new sound. It was a low, deep drone and Sheridan felt in his bones more than he heard. It lasted a matter of seconds, over before his head snapped to look. He frowned at the profile of the top-heavy construction and hanging fabric, studying it. There was a yellow light flashing on the lower panel, weak and rapid like some insect was fluttering in front of a light.

Kosh’s fractional turn startled him out of his stare. The proxy head wobbled. “What?”

Sheridan shook his head, eyes wide and feeling like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Nothing. Are you alright? Was there something on your mind?”

“Always.”

Rolling his eyes was one thing, but Sheridan didn’t think he could get away with a scoff and his manners intact. He went back to watching the screen, and Kosh went back to lurking in silence.

A cane, now. Rebo and Zooty were getting dressed to go out. They had on their top hats and tailcoats, but Zooty was struggling to finish his outfit and kept dropping the cane. It bounced each time it landed, pogo-sticking through his hands. Rebo knocked it to break the pattern, and then Zooty found himself juggling it with his partner to keep it from striking the floor and jumping again.

It was slapstick, cleverly choreographed and skilfully performed. Kosh droned again, and the yellow light flashed a little brighter.

The thought that struck Sheridan was ludicrous. Preposterous. He couldn’t resist chasing it down. He sat forward cautiously, trying not to disturb Kosh out of this peculiar behaviour so that he could observe it. The encounter suit was directed fully forwards, towering and curiously solid despite the majority of the Vorlon’s height accounted for by the fabric.

“Is that… are you laughing?” 

“Humour transcends all.”

“I suppose everyone, every species has laughter.”

“The universe is fundamentally comical. If you knew, you would understand.”

Sheridan stared back with wide eyes. “No, I think I get how ridiculous life can be all too well.”

“Tragedy cannot exist without it. Light requires darkness.”

Zooty finally caught the cane in both hands, the picture of triumph. A moment later, however, the cane became a mass of long-stemmed flowers, and Zooty crushed his face into the heads. 

Kosh droned and the light flashed, then the encounter suit moved. The heavy-set frame bobbed once, rippling the draping fabric in shivering waves. It was startling, and there was no way that Sheridan could stop staring now.

The show ended and the screen went dark as if turned off, though the Commander hadn’t touched the remote. Kosh turned on the spot, finally directing himself towards the door.

Sheridan rose to walk him out, and felt his stomach give a horrendous lurch when he saw that a black sock that had been missing for two days was trailing the Vorlon out. It was caught on something beneath the suit, and two inches of fabric were flapping along the carpet in a most undignified manner. Kosh was, apparently, unaware of it.

He could not in good conscience allow this mysterious entity to go out dragging his dirty sock behind him. Nor could he, Sheridan realised, find it in himself to mount the petty humiliation of having his laundry literally aired to an alien dignitary by telling Kosh that it was there.

Split-second decision made, Sheridan put on a long-stride burst of speed that brought him well into Kosh’s personal space. Tucking his hands behind his back in a genteel manner, smiling broadly, he trapped the edge of the offending sock beneath his boot.

“Thanks again. This was fun.”

Kosh said nothing, and didn’t react to Sheridan’s suspicious proximity. The door hissed open and the Captain watched the sock stretch between the thick hemline and his boot, having to actually apply pressure to trap the fabric against the floor. It snapped free of whatever it had been trapped on within the suit a second later. Kosh either did not notice or elected not to react, exiting smoothly.

The door hadn’t finishing closing when Sheridan picked up the sock, holding the fabric up to the light to examine it.

For the life of him, he couldn’t remember if that little hole had been there already. Or if the material was cold or _damp_ to the touch.

*

**Author's Note:**

> My very first Babylon 5 fic, and for my dearest and closest friend, Six. Love you, waifu!! I had a blast writing this.


End file.
